Tuesday, August 28, 2007

New Front Door

28 August 2007, 11:09 AM

We asked them to come replace
the door that stood rotting. I know
he planned to do this a long time ago,
but perhaps necessity dictated
postponing wisdom, until the chaos
and rush of inevitability finally caught up
with procrastination. Whether or not
one's pocketbook agrees, there are some
tasks which cannot be put off another day,
and the gaping hole in the front of my home
only serves to make me wonder if
and when and where we or someone else
might have done this, that or the other
differently, and saved the neighborhood
this cacophony of power drills and saws
and our already strained nerves the worry
of our pocketbook's disapproving gaze.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Turn of Life

26 August 2007, 4:44 PM

I sit with you embracing sounds of life-
wisps of secrets drying fast upon the page,
silent mysteries between a husband and his wife.
Ruminate on moments’ bliss
redeeming shards of innocence;
tender, fragile hints of light,
waving eves of yore goodbye.

Turn of Night

6 September 2004
An older piece, one of my favorites that never made it to the blog.

Sit alone, embracing sounds of night:
cicada buzz and cold moonlight.
Ruminate on moment's bliss,
weep once more for innocence;
tender, rocking lullaby,
waving eves of yore good-bye.

Right Here

26 August 2007, 12:51 PM
The Pub

The breeze has turned suddenly
mild- I can sit at, or near,
our favorite table in the shade
and enjoy a cider, shepherd’s pie,
and your company in comfort
amidst noises close, yet somehow
more distant than if I were alone-
the rev and rush of people going
nowhere in particular, the endless
drone of conversations at other
tables I barely notice, because
I have everything I need right here.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Notebook Sketch

14 August 2007, 2:09 PM
Of a self portrait by my uncle, sketched in a notebook and dated 3/4/99, a month and a half before his death on 4/21/99. Found the sketch while unpacking.

You held this notebook
in your hands, most likely shaking
from too much, or not enough,
of one substance or another.
The image is haunting- did you know?-
the end was near. I would come,
hold your hand as finally, at long last,
you found some form of peace.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Shy of Should

6 June 2007, 1:34 PM
Found this in my poetry file the other day- realized I never posted it, perhaps because at the time, it felt too heavy and sad. Although I guess that doesn't usually stop me. Regardless, here it is.

I found a wishing flower today. Saddened
to see so many of its dreams irretrievably lost,
I picked it anyway, for you. There is no such thing
as a hope trampled beyond redemption.

So I breathed softly on the parachutes
of which there ought to have been exactly 188,
knowing there was something shy of should-
something not quite matching up to needful-
because I promised I would hope for you,

until all of what was lost, or at least enough,
shall find its way to you upon the wind,
fall in sheets of warming, summer rain to wet
the crackled earth; revive the wishing flowers again.

Loosening My Grip

13 August 2007, 8:20 AM

I held your hand as we walked
into the school today. You seemed
so confident, for a moment I thought
you'd prefer to walk not so close.

I loosened my grip.

You tightened yours,
so I didn't let go. I never will really
understand what makes me fear
for you. I know you're ready.

Everything was perfect.

I saved my tears for the hallway
and walked away with a boy-sized ache
in my heart, realizing all the precious
time that's gone- the time I missed
when you might have come home
mid-day, and we would have
sat in the dining room together
eating cookies, drinking milk
and talking about finger-painting
projects, incomplete, but soon to be
proudly displayed on refrigerator doors.

Friday, August 10, 2007


10 August 2007, 8:53 AM

One sees them, and even
bereft of the horticultural descriptor,
one knows at once it’s just not natural.
Branches do not grow in straight
lines across brick or board.
Those limbs must be coerced with string
or other less merciful implements- wire,
nails, stakes and such, and less obedient
growth must be severed.

If for one moment that vine
or bush
or tree was allowed to grow freely,
unhindered by chafing shackles,
it would become wild and beautiful;
pull away from the unforgiving
brick or the dead, unbending wood.

But the form would remain.
Branches shaped and hardened
into unnatural lines;
uncompromising positions must remain.
They serve as a reminder of lessons
learned in less merciful times.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

I Don't Want to Forget

28 March 2007, 8:39 PM

I don’t want to forget how it feels
not to know if you want me; to wish you did;
to fear our first meeting, and yet long for it
with every fiber of my carefully assembled
person, outside and in- curious if this is the place
where Love might grow again.

I don’t want to forget the rush of hearing
words I never thought that I would hear,
after watching as you fumbled with your fears,
your dignity and confidence, wondering
what you really meant by coming here today;
to wish you wouldn’t leave before you bring yourself to say
you’d like to see me again, because I so enjoyed the time.

I don’t want to forget a single syllable
of Edward, James or William,
and I want to remember When Africa Was Home.
I’d very much like to taste that Port
just one more time before the memory gets past me,
and you become so familiar I can’t remember
what it’s like to wonder what you’re thinking,
if you’re wanting, when and if you’ll see me,
how long it’s been since I’ve been in the presence
of a man who wasn’t focused on the Goal-
had I ever known a man who wasn’t fixed upon
some distant point he’d never actually see
if he refused to move his eye from it to look at me…

I don’t want to forget sharing Indian food,
plans gone awry, and mystical encounters
in chaotic spaces; finding Home in unfamiliar faces;
faces we would barely have noticed a year ago;
faces we could not live without today.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Where You Were

21 April 2006, 7:58 PM

I used to wonder where You were
while all these little ones were being
completely and profoundly unseen

Then I saw You in the womb
I nailed You to the cross
I laid You in the tomb
which now stands gaping
empty before me

I saw you rising
rising up into the heavenlies
with my humanity
whole and wholly redeemed

and I do not wonder anymore
where You were in the midst of my suffering
because I know where You were
and I know who put You there

And I know Who ravaged the Hell of hells
because He was not tempted by it
nor by any right He could have claimed
to say no and walk away
leaving the gates of Hell locked and unbroken
and Adam and all these little ones inside

Tuesday, August 07, 2007


27 February 2007, 11:18 AM
A piece from earlier in the year that I never posted

Getting back to things
less base than mere desire-
wondering what constitutes
beauty. Is it form, substance,
some mix of the two? The gentle dip
where waist joins hip-

wherever it is that they join...

Is it the color of skin, the texture,
the incense of body and breath-
these are form; serve function.

Where lies beauty
in the midst of wind and sand?
The face beheld this moment will be gone
tomorrow. All things will be other,
some joys turn to sorrow, and wounds
to succor and balm.


3 May 2007, 1:07 PM

You must be persistent, Love.

There are so many knots
to untie. This means that you must
be patient, and also have a willingness
to help soothe rough edges, worn
raw from years of rubbing up against
harsh realities which could not be
escaped any sooner than I've managed
to writhe and wrench free
with the one go-round granted.

You must be merciful, Beloved.

There are so many tears
to dry. this means you must
be gentle, even when the salt begins
to sting your eyes; crust along the edges
of this lovely glass of wine.
So many times the brine will mix
with moments meant for gaiety and smiles.

You must be willing to see, my Love.

There are so many colors
in those tears- so many gifts kept
through the years, waiting for your hand
to come and draw them out, as it has done.
So many shades of purple I'd forgotten-
I did not know so many hues could hide
within the Shadows, waiting for their moment
to run down my face, give you a taste
of this rending grief, and every little hope
still waiting in the wells, all for you...

Monday, August 06, 2007

Moving Mountains

6 August 2007, 4:54 PM

Anger is my worst enemy
in this fight- leaves me weak
and wondering from which part of me
I’ve responded, if I’ve even responded.
Perhaps I’ve knee-jerked once again,
made life more difficult than
necessary to prove a point.

I’m angered by the lessons learned
before I ever entered this circumstance,
muddied now by irrelevant emotions.
I must learn to validate but contextualize;
pass judgment regarding relevance
to issues at hand- a lesson
whose importance cannot be overstated.

This is no game. These are the lives
of children who look to us for sanity,
whether they know it or not. They look to us
to make life what it ought to be.

Though I would have it be so,
there are only so many mountains I can move
in a lifetime- so few I have mastered
at this point, and so many who work against
what I see as light and life.

Sunday, August 05, 2007


5 August 2007, 3 PM

I went home today- was free
to be devoutly who I am, to love
the place I’ve come to call my own.
I was free, of a sudden, to see light
playing with the dark.


reminds me no person, no place,
no interpretation of God is infallible.
Every distillation of truth will capture
this or that aspect of His essence,
yet every purely human rendering
will fall short of the Original.

A sobering reminder

that I hold with open handed integrity
what I know to be the most complete
and worthy rendering of Him I’ve found,
only as I keep sight of the darkness
inherent in all earthly visions.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

When Poetry Runs Dry

I most often blog in riddles via poetry- it is, after all, my first love, and I have reason to believe it's what I'm good at. But while the poetry hasn't been flowing of late, my thought world is churning beyond my ability to process it internally. So I shall let it slip out onto the page in prose, and if the same is not my forte, perhaps you, reader, will grant me grace to share my less polished streams of consciousness.

I recently remarried, and am settling in to a life that I had given up for lost years ago. I have my son, and now I have also a gentle, kind and loving husband and a beautiful daughter as well. My opportunities to love and be loved have multiplied in the last few months, as have my venues for repentance and healing.

Funny how that works. As a single (divorced) mother, I spent an awful lot of time alternately blaming my ex for whatever it was that went wrong, and myself for allowing whatever it was that went wrong to happen. No matter how often I repented for my part in our fall, I always came back to the point where my ex was primarily predator, and I, primarily prey. I think it's a comfortable place into which one settles- the belief that there was little one could do about one's circumstances, because one was, after all, a victim.

So now I'm remarried, and finding myself very happy to be; content for the first time in a very long time. At the same time, I am facing a great many of the demons I faced the first time around, only this time, I have a better grasp on who I am, and on who my spouse is, and I find that I tend to want (and to be able) to trust his integrity and character against some of my more negative perceptions of reality. And I find that when I choose to do this, and to communicate with him about the Shadows from my past, those same Shadows tend to be dispelled, and I find one of two things happens, and I'm never quite sure which it is. Either 1) My Beloved is who I trusted him to be, or 2) my Beloved rises to that expectation, and becomes that person for love of me, because I chose to trust him. Either way, our path is that much easier, because I choose to trust him and not my fleeting emotions.

And I'm driven to consider the possibility that many of the things my ex and I became, we may very well have become because we chose to trust our more negative perceptions against the other's integrity and character.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits